


Scorpion Grass and Sewing Needles

by roraruu



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Burn call me a sage bc this is a quick burn, Dancer AU, M/M, Morgan is also a gift, Quick Burn, Tailor AU, bc gerbear pushes inifart at one point but it doesnt get worse than that promise, gerigo, jeroazu, tw: physical force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 01:32:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14438625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu
Summary: Gerome can’t stand him: the way he talks, the way he walks, the way he acts. Everything about him is aggravating. The only thing that angers him more is that he’s an extremely talented dancer that captivates everyone around him... including Gerome. [Tailor/dancer AU].





	Scorpion Grass and Sewing Needles

**Author's Note:**

> Two bros chillin in forest, one foot apart bc they are gay.  
> More extensive notes are here https://roraruu.tumblr.com/post/173313319893/an-scorpion-grass-and-sewing-needles-before-i

_I don’t like his eyes. Or that cocky expression on his face._ It’s the first thing Gerome thinks when he lays eyes his eyes upon him.

He keeps his gaze at the hem of the dress he works on. His eyes are diligently focused on the small, precise stitches he makes. The bell chimes once more as he tiredly sighs. “One moment,” he calls, setting his needle and thread down.

The tailor rises to his feet, wiping his hands on his apron before leaving the back room and heading to the front of the small shop. It’s midday, almost too bright to see the two customers clearly. However, he can still see the playful smirk that one of them wears. The other, clearly an elder woman of travels offers him a smile. “You wouldn’t happen to be Gerome, would you?” She asks.

He is taken back by her question, his brow furrowing in worry and confusion. “Yes I would. And you are?”

“A long-time client of your mother’s. Would she be around?”

“What’s your name?” He asks as the boy beside her a hides a smirk.  
  
“My name is Olivia. I’m a friend from Regna Ferox.”

 _Mother never said anything about Feroxi friends._ He thinks to himself. Gerome eyes the two carefully before nodding, sated with the information. He disappears into the back, standing in the doorway. His mother is seated in an old wooden chair, her pink locks pulled away from her face as she works at a delicately embroidered handkerchief. “There’s customers.” He says. “Looking for you.”

Cherche’s brow furrows as she sets her needlework down and walks past him. Her voice grows high as she let out a laugh. “Olivia!” She chimes as she sees the woman over the counter.

A cloud passes by over the shop. It gives enough shadow so that Gerome can clearly see the features of both customers. The woman, Olivia, has pink hair tied back and sports a headband that looks all too familiar. She is petite and lean, obviously the build of a dancer. The boy at her side wears a cocky smile and stands slightly taller than her. He has hair as white as snow and violet eyes that challenge the evening dusk.

 _I don’t like him._ Gerome thinks immediately.

His mother and the dancer chatter for many moments, smiling and laughing. There is something familiar and bright about her smile, but he can’t place it. He shouldn’t even waste the thoughts on her, period. He’s got several dresses that need to be finished for a upcoming wedding.

He turns to go back into the backroom. “Gerome,” He’s stopped by his mother’s voice, spinning back on his heel. “Come now, don’t be rude darling.” She says. Gerome rolls his eyes as he looks over his shoulder, glaring back at the customers.

“Hello.“ he says lowly. “Please excuse me. I have much work to do.”

“ _Gerome_ ,” his mother says, her voice growing annoyed.

The tailor turns around and walks to the counter. His mother smiles as she pats his shoulder. “This can’t be the same tiny Gerome who Minerva could’ve gobbled up!” Olivia says, smiling. Her son gives an obviously-fake chuckle, his brow raising.

He doesn’t know or recognize them and yet Olivia speaks like they’re old friends. He doesn’t remember his mother having any friends outside of Rosanne—Valm, even. The mention of Minerva swallowing him whole is taxing too.

He notices the boy’s hand reaching to his own. “Wonderful to meet you, Gerome.” he says, bringing Gerome’s hand to his lips. Before he can kiss it, the tailor rips it away, throwing daggers at him. He’s about to curse him out but stops at his mother’s thin laugh.

“I fear Gerome is not the most... _affectionate_ person.” She says, throwing him a look. “But yes, this is my son. He’s a fine young man and a tailor too. He’s set to take over the business when I retire.”

“Why you’re the splitting image of your mother!” Olivia says, smiling. “Just as beautiful and... er... smart, as she.”

“And a dressmaker too! Why the ladies must love you.” Her son says.

His mother smiles. “Yes. All the girls in Rosanne just adore Gerome—“

“Mother,” he grumbles.

“What? Your talents are vast! You shouldn’t shy away from them because some girls are infatuated with you,”

The tailor frowns. The boy smiles, Olivia speaking up. “Well you and Inigo have a lot in common then! The girls just adore him and his dances.”

“So you are Inigo.” His mother says, turning her gaze to him. “You’ve grown so much from the shy little boy I once met.” 

He nods, taking his mother’s hand. She allows him to place a kiss on the back of it. It sends disgust and anger through Gerome. What a skeeze. He thinks, knowing his father wouldn’t take kindly to another man displaying chivalry... If it could even be called that when such an unsavoury man offers it.

“A pleasure, Miss Cherche.” He says. His voice is different than Olivia’s. It’s got some sort of strange accent. It can’t be Feroxi, or Olivia’s voice would have sounded similar. _Probably an act to get women._ He thinks.  
  
“Clearly you’ve outgrown that shyness.” His mother says.

“By dancing, of course.” Inigo offers, a smile to follow.

Her eyes flicker back to the dancer, a sly smirk on her lips. “Why am I not surprised? Seems our sons follow our steps closely, Olivia.”

“Well, when the talent is raw and pure all you can do is follow it’s lead.” Olivia says. “Like Inigo. He’s a talented dancer like me.”

“Hm, do the girls love him as much as the men loved you?” His mother asks coyly. Inigo blushes, chuckling as Olivia flushes red.

“Uh... I just had a lot of friends, that’s all.” She says.

“You had a fan club, darling. Sir Frederick had to shield you with his armour when we passed through certain towns!” His mother says, hiding a laugh.

“Really, Mother?” Inigo asks, looking to her. He has a sick smirk on his face as Olivia continues to blush. “I didn’t know you were such a popular flirt,”

“Oh she was. She had everyone’s heart on the battlefield and off!” His mother says, pointing at her. “And don’t you deny it! You had poor Stahl running errands for you and took free lessons from my fallen lord...”

“It’s not—It wasn’t like that! They were just friend things! You know? Like Virion offered to show me the steps! And Stahl was more than happy to help!”

“Then what about Libra?”

“What... about him?”

“You made him cry! He sobbed in the Prayer tent that one time!”

“Oh Gods... It wasn’t like that! I just learnt—“ She stumbles through sentences as Gerome tunes him out, attempting to quell the annoyance inside of him. Knowing that he would face the same, redundant lecture if he left, he stays despite the annoyance of the dancer. He focuses on the bell of the counter as Olivia and his mother talk about trivial things. After a moment, he breaks his gaze from the bell and looks up, seeing that boy’s violet gaze on him.

“Inigo, didn’t you want to ask something?” Olivia prompts.

“Oh? Yes.” He says, a blush sweeping across his cheeks. _What a fool._ Gerome thinks as he bows his head. “I have a few dances of my own scheduled for his majesty the West Khan. He wishes to see my talents and Mother said that you were the finest dressmaker in the realm. Would you—“

Gerome’s eyes widen as he steels himself. The boy’s gaze grows heavy and half-lidded. A playful smile appears on his lips as his blush fades. “Would you consider designing an outfit for me?”

She couldn’t say yes. Not with the wedding party from hell, the multiple dresses and suits on order for a local ball and the hours-worth of embroidery that needed to be finished by the end of the—

“Well, how could I say no?” His mother says, smiling. “After all, if your skill in dancing is as sharp as your mother’s, it would be a travesty to most everyone.”

“Excellent!” Olivia chimes.

Was his mother stupid? A complete dancer’s outfit took weeks, months even. He could already hear her defending the decision: _oh it’s for an old friend... it’s his first recital alone as a professional dancer... They sailed all the way from Regna Ferox to secure this... how could I say no?_

Gerome rolls his eyes as his mother and Olivia chatter on about the costumes and the routines and the music. The boy, Inigo, doesn’t say much, other than offering bits of laughter and quick nods to add to the conversation. Gerome observes him, his eyes hide something. Something deeper than a desire for his mother’s talents for design, or the secrets of his dancing.

Gerome ignores him, all of them. Being around people for too long is tiring. It sends him into a daze of social fatigue, making him want to run away with Minerva, the family wyvern.

Slowly, he slinks off to the backroom, returning to the myriad of dresses that need his attention. He selects a layer of lace, setting it overtop of a dress on a mannequin. He pins it in place, pulling pins from the cushion on his wrist.

“You surely have your mother’s talents.”

He jumps, turning to see the cocky dancer. He frowns. “You’re not allowed back here.” He says immediately.

“Cherche said it was alright.”

“I’m working.”

“She says you shouldn’t be. It’s rude. Especially if an old friend is visiting.”

“I don’t even know you.” Gerome says.

“Not yet youn don’t.” He playfully teases.

“What are you to me other than another customer?”

Inigo frowns. “I understand this is less than pleasant for you.” He says, that voice annoying Gerome. “But maybe we should put aside these differences for the sake of our mothers’ friendship?”

Gerome doesn’t say a word. Inigo’s eyes look to the wooden model that the dress hangs off of. The blush pink fabric is horrid, but its what the bridal party wants. The added lace is even worse, but it still wasn’t by Gerome’s choosing.

”So what do you do around here? Besides sew?” Inigo asks.

Gerome doesn’t say a word, instead working away at the lace on the dress. The dancer sighs and says a cuss under his breath. “Are you seriously going to be this rude?”

“Give me one good reason why I should try to make small talk with you when I’ve got a mountain of orders to complete before the end of the month.” He asks.

“Your mother.”

Gerome frowns. “She does not dictate my life.” He says.

“No, but she holds a lot of hope in you. To be a gentleman, to be kind.”

“I have a business to keep afloat.” Gerome says. Inigo holds his gaze for a moment before a voice tears them apart.

“Gerome, Inigo,” his mother appears in the doorway. She smiles at the two. “we’re going to get a meal at the local tavern.”

“How lovely. The journey has left me starving.” Inigo says.

Gerome rolls his eyes as he angrily stabs a pin to the cushion on his wrist. He slips off the bracelet pin cushion. A frown spreads across his face as his mother gives him a look, surely saying ‘ _be pleasant dear_ ’. He sets down his work and rises from his crouched seat. “Coming,” he mutters, following the dancer out.

Dinner is insufferable. Inigo has this laugh, not quite as deep as a chuckle, but still not as close to an actual giggle. He uses it constantly at the tales Olivia tells about their travels across the realm. Gerome only wishes to go home and finish the current orders before working on _his_ outfit.

They sup, to which his mother actually drinks wine. A rare feat, indeed. The last time Gerome can recall his mother with a wine goblet in her hand is after his father left. That was years ago. Her face is flush and she smiles a lot and the glass empties only once—the telltale signs of a lightweight.

Olivia drinks too, but she’s much better at holding her alcohol. Any blush on her cheeks is her trademark sign of beauty. Her glass empties twice and Inigo stops her before ordering another. It seems to take forever for his mother and Olivia to say their farewells. To make matters worse, they fight over the cheque before Gerome slips away and pays the hostess. Neither can remember who paid.

“Olivia, Olivia _darling_ ,” his mother holds the dancer’s face. “I’m just so overjoyed that you came to see me after all these years... I’ve been so lonely away from the Shepherds.”

“I suppose the letters weren’t enough.”

His mother shakes her head. A happy, drunken smile crosses her face as she holds Olivia tight. The sappiness of the reunion is sickening, turning his stomach. “No, no they weren’t! I missed you so!” She exclaims, clutching onto Olivia. “Thank you for coming, thank you...”

“We’ll be here for a few days yet, Cherche.” Olivia assures her. She holds her close before patting her back. “Go home and get your rest! We need you in top form tomorrow!” She exclaims.

“Yes, of course!” His mother exclaims. They say farewell for the thousandth time and Gerome holds his mother close. When they reach home, he helps her up to her bed and gets her a glass of water.

“Gerome,” she says as he’s leaving the room. He helped braid her hair down her back and cushion her bed. He looks back at his mother, the moonlight cupping her face. Her hazel eyes are half-lidded and hazy.

“Yes?” He says quietly.

“If you’re wondering why I took Olivia’s order, it’s because she’s very dear to me.” She says.

“I can tell from the way you held onto her. It was like she was a security blanket.”

His mother smiles. “She was a comrade-in-arms. We barely made it through the war together.” She says.

 _The Shepherds_. He thinks back to the times when his mother and father were happy. It was how they’d met. She’d joined the Ylissean militia once things in Valm became dire, where she met his father. They returned to Rosanne to rebuild and married sometime after the war. He was born not long after.

She didn’t talk much of war. She had only detailed it by saying that joined because of her previous lord and to help her country. But she never talked of the invisible scars it left behind. He could see the visible ones on Minerva; she’d been his mother’s steed in battle. The mental and psychological damage however, remained locked deep in his mother’s mind.

He thought that she’d made few friends and only met his father there, but now... It seemed otherwise.

He thought of Olivia, flimsy and fragile on the battlefield. From that evening, he learnt that her dances were rejuvenating to the soldier’s soul and proved beneficial. But still, the idea of a dancer amongst clashing weapons and healers bent over injured and dying soldiers, and Gods, the amount of blood to stain her costume—

 _Well that’s it._ She must have repaired her costumes. He thinks as his mother tucks herself into bed.

“Our friendship started after I sewed her dancer’s ring. It tore in battle.” She says. Her voice is muffled by the pillow that she clutches. “I’ve made her costumes ever since. Her son is sensitive like she. I only want to see him succeed too. Her family is very close to my heart.”

“I can tell.”

“And it’s not like you don’t know him completely,” his mother says, her tone tipsy. “you and Inigo met and played several times as children. You liked each other.”

“I find it hard to even think I liked him.” He grumbles.

“Gerome.” She says tiredly. “I want you to try to get along with him. Who knows what could... become of... this...”

She trails off. The seamstress falls asleep and Gerome lets out a sigh. He rests his hand on the doorknob. “Sleep well, Mother.” He says, quietly before shutting the door.

 

*****

 

The next day, Morgan, the daughter of a tactician comes in. She’s bright and bubbly and supposedly a genius. Emphasis on the word supposedly. She’s actually a ditz in the robes of a strategist.

Her father is Robin, the previous grandmaster of Ylisse. Her mother is Say’ri, a Chon’sin princess and a master of the blade. Both were involved in the Ylissean-Plegian war and conflicts that followed. Now, Robin is quite secretive, as is Say’ri. Few even knew of their union, save for those who moved to Valm after the war. Even less knew of Morgan, surely the Exalt didn’t.

But perhaps that is for the best. Morgan’s an idiot with tomes bigger than her head. And the loudest mouth Gerome’s ever seen.

Like Olivia, his mother knew Robin in the war, but neither of them are as close and welcoming as Olivia is.

“Do not speak of Olivia or Inigo,” his mother tells him as Morgan strolls in that morning. He glances at her, brow furrowing. He can tell by the way her voice drops, how the lines around her eyes and mouth crinkle. It’s the face she makes when she’s deadly serious.

“ _Hell-o!_ ” Morgan chimes as she hangs over the counter. She taps the bell three times repeatedly as his mother looks up from her sketches.

“It’s your client, dear.” She says, plastering on a fake smile.

The tailor frowns before grabbing his pincushion and sliding it onto his wrist. He tales an almost-complete dress with ornate stitching, something that had taken months. He folds it carefully over his arm before coming out to counter.

Morgan beams, her smile infectious to most. Most of the villagers can’t help but smile when she wanders into town. “Hey Gerbear!” She greets as he lifts the counter up for her to pass through.

She wears her tacticial robes, even though she is far from any battlefield. She always says her father was a great tactician and she wants to be just like him. _‘It starts with how you look!’_ She’d said once, detailing why her hair is kept so short. He learnt that her mother was annoyed with it, as Chon’sin dynasty traditionally kept their hair long.

She said her mother was quick to end the argument when reminded her of her marriage to the nationless tactician.

“So, how are things in Gerbear’s world?” She asks as she pulls off her heavy robe. It’s warm outside, the beginning of summer and yet she’s walking around in a garment that is meant for the cold. Not to mention that she layers like she lives in the cold north.

“Stop calling me Gerbear. I’ve told you thousands of times.” He says as he pulls back the change room curtain. They exchange the robe and dress and Morgan disappears behind the curtain.

Gerome hangs her robe up. He grabs a pair of shears, tucking in them in the back of his trousers. He pulls the pedestal from the wall of the room, settling it up in front of the small mirror. Morgan appears a moment later, donning the dress. It’s a beautiful, rich purple with gold trim. As per her parents’ request, it’s directly Chon’sin inspired. There’s a layer of thinner, glittery violet fabric beneath the top layer. It’s short sleeved with a layered v-neck. In the back, where he had been working, there’s a thick gold belt with decorative charms at the end waiting. He had been embroidering purple eyes, a deliberate decision by Morgan, along the centre of the belt.

The dress is much too long for Morgan’s tiny stature, even with her clunky heeled boots on. It drags behind her in an unacceptable way. Had it been a wedding train, perhaps it would do... But this was for her debut as princess of Chon’sin. Robin had stressed the importance, most likely from his wife’s insistence.

“Anything new happen?” She asks, that same smile on her face.

Gerome offers his hand to help her onto the pedestal. She’s impishly sized; strange as her parents are both tall. She takes it, stepping up as Gerome ducks down to fan the too-long cut over her clunky boots. “No,” he grunts, thinking of the arrival of Inigo and Olivia and the drinking that ensued. That morning his mother had looked more tired than normal, thanks to the wine she’d indulged in.

“Oh. Sucks.” Morgan says as Gerome begins to roll the fabric up to her ankles, the heels of her boots are visible.

“What about you?” He asks after a while. “Any tactical genius lessons from your father?”

“No, I wish.” She gripes. “He’s been with mother for ages and all they want to do is sit under the cherry blossoms and watch the rivers when they’re not in the palace. It’s _bo-ring_.”

He grunts in response, unrolling the fabric and reaching for his shears. The sound of snipping fills the air as Morgan hums away. “You should come to Chon’sin sometime. It’d be more fun with you around.” She says.

“I’d rather go to church in Plegia.” He says scathingly.

Morgan is either too stupid to catch his scorn or ignores it. She begins to speak of everything in Chon’sin and how boring it is to sit in a palace while her parents talk to dynasts and discusses economy and different crises.

Morgan has been his client for years. His first actually. When Gerome first learnt how to sew, her father had sent in a torn blanket of hers. Under his mother’s eye, he stitched it and sent it on it’s way with a letter of completion. Little did he know that blanket belonged to the annoyingly bright heir of a country. She now travelled by herself—usually outwitting, by some strange occurrence, her security team—to Rosanne for fittings and to pester Gerome. Morgan was the closest thing to a friend he had, aside from Minerva.

”I heard one of Dad’s old friends from the war is going on a dancing tour again,” she says. Gerome’s gaze looks up from his careful pinning process. “Apparently all her costumes were made by Cherche.”

“I heard nothing of it,” Gerome says quickly as Morgan looks down to him and smirks.

“Really? So she wouldn’t be in town by any chance...?”

“I wouldn’t know.”  
  
“Hm.” Morgan murmurs. She begins to hum again as Gerome finishes placing the pins. He helps her off the pedestal and she turns to go back into the change room once again.

He retrieves her robe and as he does so, the door opens. “Afternoon!” A dancer cheerily remarks as slides up to the counter. In his hand is a snapdragon. “For your lovely mother!”

“What are you doing here?” Gerome hisses. _If Morgan sees him here she’ll definitely tell Robin. And then I’m done._ He thinks.

“My costume?” Inigo’s brow furrows. He puts on a mock expression of sadness, clutching his chest. “Tell me you didn’t forget about dear old Inigo, Gerome! Oh my poor heart!”  
  
“ _Shut up,_ ” Gerome hisses. His voice drops as he leans towards the dancer. ”Cherche said she’d summon you once she has designs!” 

“Then why was Mother and Cherche discussing about today last night?”  
  
“That’s when she was going to start designs!” Gerome exclaims. He walks around the counter and grabs Inigo’s arm.  
  
“Oh! You have such a rough touch for a dressmaker,” Inigo says. The tailor flushes as he drops his arm.  
  
“Shut your mouth!”  
  
“Why?”  
  
He scrambles for a moment. “M-Mother has a headache. If you don’t be silent and leave, your designs won’t be complete in time for production! Then you won’t have an outfit for the Khan!”

“You don’t sound so sure there, Gerome.” He says before shrugging. “But best to err on the side of caution when a woman is in pain. Perhaps it was my mistake.” He says, turning to the door. Gerome breathes a sigh of relief as he pushes the door open.

“ _Gerbear, I’m done!_ ” Morgan exclaims. The two turn to the tactician. Her brow furrows and smile drops. “Whoops, didn’t realize you were so popular.”

“Neither did I,” Inigo says, his gaze narrowing. By the expression on his face, Gerome can tell that he recognizes the silly crown princess. “ _Gerbear_.”

He brushes past Gerome, the latter frowning deeply. Inigo rests his elbow on the counter, holding out his hand to Morgan. “Your beauty is that of a princess,” he says.

“Only thing about her that’s royal...” Gerome mutters under his breath, earning a glare from Morgan.

“Your name, my lady?” Inigo asks.

Morgan gives him her hand and he kisses it. Gerome rolls his eyes. “Morgan, of Chon’sin.” She says, her voice now strong and commanding. Gerome has to do a double take to make sure she’s still Morgan. The goofball that hums while making grand strategies to steal sandwich cookies from the kitchens is gone.

“A pleasure. I am Inigo, a da—“ He is stopped short as Gerome elbows him in the gut, pulling his hand from hers. The dancer chokes and gasps, Morgan’s eyes growing wide.

“He’s a dumbass. And my next client.” Gerome says quickly while the dancer fights welling tears.

“I thought _I_ was the only dumbass you serviced.” Morgan says, then feigning betrayal. “Are you cheating on me?”

Gerome hurries behind the counter and gives Morgan her robes. He ignores her comment. “I’ll finish the hemming and it should be ready for your debut.” He says quickly, pushing her towards the door. “I’ll summon you to pick it up before the end of the week.”

“Okay...?” Morgan says, a little confused. Gerome pushes her out of the shop, calling farewell before turning to Inigo.

“You’re a moron.” He says.

“Why? How?” Inigo exclaims. His face is red as Gerome walks behind the counter. Inigo follows in suit.

“You knew that your designs wouldn’t be finished by today!” He says. “Why did you come here?”

“I don’t know, maybe to be polite? Chat with you about things? We were supposedly friends as babes,” Inigo smiles.

“I’d rather befriend a rattlesnake.”

“That’s rather harsh.” Inigo says, frowning. “And what was with that girl? You acted strange around her.”

“She’s a longtime client.” “She’s cute, that’s what she is.” Inigo says.

“Don’t.” Gerome says, turning to face him. There’s a smirk on Inigo’s face and a devilish look in his eyes. Gerome picks up the dress, frowning at it.

“What? You got a crush on her?” He scoffs.

“Not bloody likely.”

“Then why’d you try to shove me out of the shop?”

Gerome stays quiet. Inigo laughs. “Oh ho, so you do have a crush on her!” He exclaims before going off on a tyrant about the tactician. _It’s better to let him go off here_ , he thinks, picking up the dress and beginning the hemming.

 

*****

 

“Come Minerva.” Gerome commands.

The wyvern tiredly lumbers towards him. She’s not tired out of hard work, more out of laziness. When the shop is busy and orders are high, free time grows scarce. With the recent dance outfits and orders, Minerva has only seen the green pastures around their home rather than a verdant forest.

It’s saddening to Gerome. As a child when his mother was busy, he would play with Minerva from sun up until dinner. Adulthood had taken that from him, those days of happy nothingness and the memories they brought.

But he would not let his nightly walk with Minerva be taken. It was the one thing he looked forwards to most at the end of a long day. Not to get up and stretch from being bent over, cautiously working away at the precise measurements and stitches. But to be with Minerva. To walk in the forest outside their home, the little wood that he’d spent so much of his childhood in.

Minerva knows the scents, the path, the trees all too well. Surely most of it seems tired and old to her but she always walks in the direction of the forest when Gerome calls her after supper. It’s routine for her, for him. They walk around the trees, the only sounds are nightbirds and the crunch of leaves and twigs beneath their feet. Occasionally he’ll talk with her about his day, otherwise, its just the sounds of the forest.

Except tonight. Tonight he hears something. It’s just as he enters the shade of the trees. Its unusually light out. There’s an odd brightness in the sky, perhaps it’s still sunset and Gerome hadn’t noticed. Generally it’s much darker.

“Hold.” He whispers to Minerva. The beast stops, staying silent. The wood is once again silent and Gerome stays still. He holds his hand out to Minerva, grazing the scales on her chest.

Then, he hears it. The sound of feet hitting the forest floor with time and rhythm.

 _“If all may fail and love is gone, surely you’ll hear the words of this song... know that I am a fool, but only a fool for you._ ”

By the little creek, with the short, gentle tinkling of water downstream. Gerome pulls Minerva to his side, watching as the figure continues to sing and dance.

The movements are precise and careful. Airy, but firm. A hand spread overhead, thin fingers forming a demented star. There’s a quick flash as something beautiful and sheer launches into the air, following the dancer’s flawless twirl.

For a moment, he’s mesmerized, watching as the dancer moves with the gentle breeze. The dancer is weightless. Nothing, not the shoes on their feet, the clothes on their back or the head on their shoulders can weigh them down. It’s true beauty sprawling out before Gerome. Hell, maybe it’s even poetry with the words on the wind.

“ _Rain will drown and lightning will kill. The heavens decay and the stars collide, all before my love will die... hate me forever, forsake me as you will, but in your presence my love cannot hide._ ” They sing. Slowly, Gerome places their voice. It’s at that moment, when they begin the short hook of humming does Gerome realise who he is staring at.

He hears the gentle clink of rings hitting together. Hands meet, fingers entangled in one another before wrists kiss and intertwine. The rings fall lower, the dancer’s back to Gerome and face to the creek, as if offering a dance to nature. It’s the sheer-white material and the golden spiked rings that give away who is dancing.

Inigo’s white hair sparkles in the moonlight. His accessories are discarded, the gold belt and pink sash left to the side with his boots. He is barefoot, his toes pointed ever-so precisely as he steps closer to the river. By the edge of the trees, opposite to where Gerome and Minerva hide, are boots, surely Inigo’s.

In the moonlight, he looks so gentle, so timid. Almost like a swan. He is just as graceful as one, his movements calculated and calm. _I wonder if this is his dance for the Khan._ Gerome finds himself wondering.

“ _Earth may die and the sky may fall. My heart may break but it will repair_.” Inigo sings. His voice is surprisingly good, very gentle for this song.

He dances into the moonlight and at last Gerome sees his face. Spread across his lips is a smile. One that’s true, not the fake, thin-lipped smiles he gives out in the presence of others. His eyes are shut and his face has the happiest expression Gerome’s ever seen.

He breaks gaze from Inigo and glances to Minerva. Her eyes are wide and she watches Inigo. She’s mesmerized by his dancing, pulled into his trance like she’s been roped down. _I can’t blame her_. He thinks to himself. He touches Minerva’s side, knowing that they should leave but it’s much too beautiful to look away from.

Inigo’s dance soon finishes. He holds a pose, accepting applause and roses from an invisible audience before letting out a deep sigh. He is tired, shown by the lines on his face and the sweat beading his forehead. He rests the shawl, surely Olivia’s, on a nearby rock.

Gerome watches as he stretches out for a moment. Inigo rests on the ground and stretches his legs out. His arm comes out and picks a small flower from the ground. It’s baby blue and violet in spots. _Perhaps scorpion grasses,_ Gerome thinks, _but its too far to be certain_.

Suddenly, Inigo rises to his feet, stepping in the stream quickly to wash the dirt from the soles of his feet. He splashes around quietly and tucks the flower behind his ear, his snow-like hair falling on the stem. He walks to the other edge of the trees, pulling on his boots. His reflection in the lake fades and his dance is all but a memory in Gerome’s mind.

It is both a haunting and beautiful memory that he holds. He wakes in the morning, tired yet enthralled by Inigo’s dance. He couldn’t remember when he stumbled in the night before, but thankful that his mother had gone to bed. His mother had said Olivia was brought onto the field to rejuvenate soldiers. Her dances were powerful, and perhaps she’d passed on that power to Inigo.

The following night, Minerva drags him to the same spot and they watch Inigo dance once again. They fall into a schedule. Inigo leaves the shop, Cherche and Gerome have dinner, Gerome takes Minerva on her nightly walk and they watch Inigo for Gods-know how long. It’s a peaceful time—by the lake, in the moonlight—watching Inigo dance. It makes Gerome forget how obnoxious and foolish he is. Surprising that something so beautiful can come from someone like him.

The days pass and nights come. Inigo dances and Gerome and Minerva watch. It becomes routine, but not in a boring or mundane way. It’s... pleasurable for Gerome. Inigo is usually quiet, save for the songs he sings; and Minerva is all too happy to hunker down in the shadows and watch as the dancer rehearses. His songs range from the lost love he sang about on the first night, to a knight in the skies above, to a heartbroken swan princess.

 _This shouldn’t be good. I shouldn’t... like this,_ Gerome thinks as he watches Inigo dance among patches of scorpion grass. The blue heads kiss his ankles as he dances over them. It’s almost like he is a mage, and his dance is his perfected spell. It intoxicates them, neither Gerome or Minerva have eyes for anyone else. Perhaps it’s from his father, Gerome remembers his mother remarking about Olivia’s ‘strange’ husband.

“ _Argh!”_ Inigo cries out. He slips against the ground, mud slicking his feet and clothes. He grumbles a cuss before whimpering. Gerome is at the edge of the tree scape, getting to his feet. He almost ventures out of the shadows when he stops. He cannot let Inigo find him. Not for the dancer’s sake but his own. If Inigo saw him, hunkered down in tall grass and trees with Minerva, he’d think that he was going let the wyvern eat him or something. Though that was impossible, Minerva had no taste for flesh, or red meat even.

Or he’d think they were _friends_. Gods, there couldn’t be a fate worse than that. It was bad enough that he was helping to make Inigo’s outfit. The last thing he wanted was to be friends with an obnoxious male dancer. The shop was already stupid enough with the amount of women coming to see him specifically for minor repairs.

He watches as Inigo gets up. He turns to the little stream. He wipes at his eyes with his hand and covers his eyes for a moment. _He’s crying_ , Gerome realises. _Why would he cry? He just slipped in mud._

The dancer draws a breath, steadying his cries. He bites his lip, knotting his hands in fists. He says something, inaudible to anyone but himself.

Minerva lets out a worried gasp. Gerome is quick to lay an assuring hand on her shoulder. They watch as Inigo steps into the stream, quickly washing off his feet. He dips his hands in and splashes water onto his face. After a moment, it begins to rain again. The surface of the stream hit with little droplets of water. The dancer sighs, collects his boots and rings and hurries off into the night.

When it’s safe, Gerome and Minerva return home. It’s cold and rainy and Minerva’s scales are slick and shimmering with the rain. He takes off the gray shawl tied around his shoulders and towels her off as best as he can with it before running into the house to get her another blanket. When he returns, he sees Inigo at her stall. His face is free of tears and the rings are gone. There’s still skid-marks of mud on his legs and ass though.

“Why are you out here?” Gerome asks, already knowing.

“Evening walk. Clears the mind.” He said, tapping a finger against his temple.

Gerome forces a frown. “In the pouring rain?” Inigo puts on that cheesy smile that annoys him so. “You’re soaked to the bone you dolt.”

“Well so are you. What’s your reason?”

“I was walking Minerva before bed.” He says quickly. “What do you want?”

“Testy testy,” Inigo chides. His purple eyes are glassy, the sole remnant of his crying fit. “it’s shocking how many ladies you attract with a sour attitude like that!”

He returns to drying off the wyvern, making sure her paddock is as dry and as comfortable as possible. Inigo comes under the little roof, shivering. His white hair sticks to his forehead, rain droplets freckled across his face.

“Lie,” Gerome commands as Minerva rests against shredded rags. He fans out a blanket over her.

“It’s my uh... my pants.” Gerome glances back to him incredulously.

“I do not go—“

Inigo raises his hands in defense, shaking his head. His cheeks are scarlet and he quickly laughs. “Gods no! No, no!” He says. “On my walk, I slipped and fell. My mother would be worried if she found my pants all ruined and muddy...”

“So you want me to wash them?” Gerome asks.

The dancer gives a sheepish smile as Gerome rolls his eyes. He fans out another blanket out over Minerva’s body and gently pats her head before locking her stable. “Come on,” he looks to Inigo.

Gerome opens the back door to the home and nods for Inigo to come in after him. There’s a candle lit by his mother. The home is small, quaint. There’s a few chairs around a table and cookstove going. The fire, surely once roaring, is now nothing more than a few amber coals burning. On cold nights such as these, his mother has a habit of taking old stones, warming them on top of the cookstove and leaving them at the end of their beds to warm it. There’s one left for him.

“Follow me,” Gerome says, walking to his room and grabbing an extra pair of trousers from his drawers. He hands them to Inigo, whose eyes are wide and stark. “Change into these.“

The dancer quickly rises, standing, as if called for curtain. He disappears into the other room as Gerome takes the buckets and washboard used for laundry day. He goes outside to the water pump, drawing enough to fill and bringing it back into the house. When he returns, Inigo is standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“Here,” he says, handing the soiled trousers to Gerome. He turns to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To the inn?” Inigo says, almost a question in itself.

“You really want to go back soaking?”

“My mother will worry otherwise.”

“She’ll be worried who’s bed you shared to get trousers two sizes too large.” Gerome says.

The dancer blushes before laughing. “Why Gerome, it’s almost like you want me to stay,”

“I want nothing more than for you to leave me be.” He mutters under his breath.

“I’m sorry?”

“Just... stay. It shouldn’t be longer than an hour.” He says, getting a bit of soap from the cupboard. He closes the door and walks towards the stove. He sets the buckets down, pulling the washboard from under his arm. He gets to his knees, cuffing his widely brimmed sleeves once more and unfurling the trousers.

Inigo watches before pulling a cushion from by the stove and sitting down on it.

The process isn’t long and arduous as thought. Gerome rubs some soap onto the mud stains, plunging the garment into the suds to soak. His brow creases as he focuses. His hand lays flat against the pants, scrubbing it against the metal of the washboard. The air fills with a gritty hum, something heard by both men in their youth. He dunks the pants back in, then back against the board, then back into the water until it’s cloudy and the suds are dying.

Gerome is thankful that Inigo says nothing. The thought of conversing with him more than needed is too much right now. He needs something small, menial to focus on. The dancer is just... too much to handle.

He hears Inigo hum after a while. His violet gaze is on the small coals. His skin is red in the fire’s glow, cheeks flush. “If you’re cold,” Gerome says, keeping his gaze to the washboard. “I can make you a cup of tea.”

Inigo looks to him, still taken by the offer. Of all the times he’d asked women in the shop to go to tea, of all the times Gerome had told him to shut it, he was now being offered it.

“I can do it.” He says quietly, getting to his feet.

Gerome keeps his gaze to the washboard, only looking up when Inigo’s back is to him. The dancer finds the kettle and brings it to the cookstove, setting it on top to boil.

The tailor pulls the pants taut, scanning for any stains. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone stared at the back of my trousers with such passion,” Inigo teases.

Gerome answers by wringing them out and dunking them into the soapy water again. The dancer smirks before bringing two tea cups to them. He finds the sachets and tosses them into the mugs.

The silence returns and is welcomed. Gerome works and cusses under his breath as he pulls the trousers from the water. There’s no stains so he drenches them in the rinse bucket, holding them under for a bit before wringing them out over and over. It’s obvious that laundry day had been Gerome’s day for sometime; the way he wrings out the pants like he’s kneading dough. When he’s certain the pants are as dry as they come, he takes a makeshift hanger and holds it up over the stove so that they will dry. He chucks the water outside and brings the buckets back inside. It’s stopped raining thankfully, but still muddy and slick.

The water boils not long after and Inigo prepares the tea as Gerome tiredly stretches out his hands. Laundry a top of a day’s worth of sewing and hemming was not kind to the body.

“Do you have honey?” Inigo asks.

“Not if memory serves.” Gerome says.

“Hm. Sugar then?”

“There should be a few cubes.” He says getting up and going to the cupboard. Inigo is shorter than Gerome by a few inches, but it makes him feel like a tree; tall and wavering in the sky. Just like Inigo’s audience by the stream, a group of tall, teetering pines that whisper in the language of the wind.

He finds them and offers the box to the dancer who throws three into the tea. Gerome cringes at the amount of sweetness in that small cup. “Is your father Sticky Fingers Gaius?” Gerome asks snidely.

It earns a laugh from Inigo who takes a sip from his cup. “It’s the only way I can force it back.” Inigo says.

“Then why are you constantly asking women out to tea?”

“It’s the perfect icebreaker. It gives you things to talk about, too. Like how you like your tea.” He says. “Like if you like it sweeter than a singer’s voice or bitter like _your_ blackened heart.”

Gerome ignores the dancer’s jest, hoping he stops but the dancer continues to rattle on. “Not to mention that it lasts long enough for you to decide if you’re interested in the girl, and if not, you’ve only wasted a copper; a silver if you’re a big spender.”

“Yet the tea is bitter and you don’t like it,”

“But I love the women. So beautiful and alluring. There’s so much about the fairer sex that drives one mad.” He says.

Gerome stays silent as he goes back to the cookstove. He sits down in front of it, warming his frozen hands, red and raw from the cold water. Inigo joins him a moment later and the two warm by the stove. Once again, Inigo begins to hum that song. The same one he’s sung almost every night while he performs.

Unlike their time in the shop, there’s quiet between them. It’s comfortable, welcome even. The needless chatter is gone and there’s nothing but the sound of the cackling fire and Inigo’s nameless song. And, as strange as it might sound, Gerome somewhat enjoys it.

Before long, the fire begins to die and Inigo’s trousers are dry and clean. The rain has stopped and it’s still dark. The stars are out, shining brightly in the sky.

“Thank you for the tea and... the pants,” Inigo blushes. Gerome feels his own cheeks flush too as he nods. It’s the only thing he can do at the moment.

He turns on his heel. Gerome follows him to the door. In the starlight, Inigo’s hair glows. His face is shadowed, his blush hidden. His voice is quiet as he speaks. “I...” he begins. Gerome half-expects for him to say something important, or something stupid. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He says. He turns away and is suddenly bathed in the light. His face is still flush, the tired lines caused by practice are gone and replaced with innocent, somewhat and longing looks. His eyes are half-lidded in a gentle way. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he turns to the woods, returning to the inn.

Gerome finds himself standing in the doorway for a moment, watching as he leaves and for longer after he’s gone. After a moment he shuts the door and with an airy breath, blows out the candle that led them home.

 

*****

 

“I’m taking your sorry ass out.” Inigo tells him the next day. The day is stiflingly warm, strange for fair Rosanne. Last night’s rain had only brought in more heat and humidity instead of relief. Gerome had shed the tunic and shawl he came in with in the morning and works away in an undershirt.

“It’s not even your day to be here.” Gerome says, focusing on the hem of a pair of pants. One cuff drags against the pedestal, the other against the mannequin’s ankle.

“I don’t care. You and I are going out for a cup of tea.”

Gerome’s brow furrows. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Then I’ll drag you out by your mask.” Inigo threatens.

The tailor frowns as he stops his needlework. “How much to get you to leave?”

“Oh come on! I’m trying to thank you for last night.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously.” He says. “It would be thanks enough for you to leave right now and go practice.”

“Come now, it won’t be more than an hour! And an hour well-spent!”

“An hour with you is ill-spent.” He grumbles under his breath.

Inigo frowns. “Why? Are the women not enough? The beautiful creatures that we can sweep off their feet?”

“I’d prefer to spend an hour finishing orders.” He says. “Then I could close early and spend time with Minerva.”

“Well, what if I left, you closed up and then we went for tea? Only a half hour? And then you and Miss Mivvy—“

The tailor shoots daggers at him. “Don’t you _ever_ call her Mivvy again.”

“—Minerva can enjoy the evening together!” Inigo suggests. His purple eyes glitter as Gerome shakes his head. He grumbles, giving in with a simple ‘fine’.

Inigo smiles before bowing. “I’ll be back in an hour, my brooding wingman!” He calls before leaving. The tailor tiredly sighs as he turns his attention back to his work.

 _Why can’t he be as focused and modest as he is when he’s rehearsing?_ He thinks to himself. _It’d be easier to deal with him then._

Gerome finishes the hem job on the pants and then a few patch jobs on the odd garments. His mother had taken the day off to go into town with Olivia for fabric and material hunting, something they apparently did together in their youth. Gerome closes the shop, turning over the sign and sweeping out the floor before locking up. At the back door, with a sly smile on his face and softened eyes is Inigo.

He chatters loudly as they go into town and find a little tea shop. There are chairs and tables set out under umbrellas and shade to shield the tired and dehydrated drinkers. Inside, the walls are covered in jars of different mixtures of leaves, dried fruits, and herbs.

“Honestly Gerome, I’m surprised that you haven’t been courted yet!” Inigo says as their tea comes. There’d been few times that Gerome had gone out for tea. This particular cafe serves them in little pots with a cup and saucer. There’s little tea lights to keep the pots warm. _A quaint accent._ He thinks as he pours his own cup.

“I don’t wish to be courted.” He says, adding quickly: “Or to court anyone.”

He watches as Inigo pours his tea and fires the obscene amount of sugar in the poor cup. He stirs it before taking a heady sip, surely scalding his silver tongue. “Aw, but what about that little tactician? Morgan, right?”

“She’s a friend. I’ve already told you.”

“Not even a friends-to-lovers? How absolutely boring.” Inigo says, tapping his chin and letting out a _tsk_. “And Mother always said you’d be a fine young gentleman.”

“I have a business to take over.” He says, blowing steam from the tea. “Surely you could take it with a girlfriend, no?”

“I don’t want a wife.” He says.

“I didn’t say wife, specifically. Just a girl to... have fun with.” Inigo smiles.

“I don’t want a woman in my life.” He says. “The only girl I want is Minerva.”

“I know she’s...” Inigo thinks, biting his lip in the process. He finally decides. “ _Cute_ , but a human companion would be a better—“

“Not like that you fool!” Gerome says a bit too loudly. One girl looks up from her tactical strategies book, her brow furrowed. Her friend lazily flicks her gaze between her thick novel and the yelling from their table.

Inigo smirks and winks at the two as Gerome just flushes with annoyance. “That’s a cry for help, literally.” Inigo says, patting his hand. “Don’t worry, your fairy Godfather Inigo is here—“

“You’re vapid as hell.” He hisses as Inigo shrugs.

“At least I can get a date.”

“Well I don’t want one,”

“Because you’re too busy with that lizard with wings—“

“Don’t talk about Mivvy like that!”

“ _Mivvy?!_ ” He asks before erupting in laughter. It sounds different from the forced chuckles at the tavern. His smile is wide and his laugh is sweet, but not as sweet as that the tea he’s throwing back. He wipes a tear from his eye. “Oh, now I see why I’m not allowed to call her that!”

“Yes,” Gerome hisses as Inigo chuckles heartily.

“Protective of her are we?” He says, picking up his cup and taking another sip. Inigo’s brow raises as he sets his cup down. His face falls from laughter, slowly becoming more serious. His brow cocked, he asks, “Are you set on the bachelor life?”

“For now, yes.” Gerome says tiredly.

“Hm. That won’t do,”

“I don’t care what you think.” He says as he takes a sip of the tea that’s still burning hot.

Inigo glances over the shoulder of his chair. He spies out the girl studying tactics. She has long pink hair with fringe and a black bow. “That girl. I want you to talk to her.” He says, pointing his index finger over his shoulder.

“I’m not doing it.”

“Aw, why not?”

“Because I don’t want to. You can philander all you want but I’m tired of women breaking shit in my shop just to get a look at me.” Gerome says.

Inigo pouts. “Fine. I’ll speak to her.” He says, getting up from his seat and approaching the girl. Gerome watches as he greets her before sitting down. The girl is obviously more interested in her tactics over Inigo.

 _What an idiot_. Gerome thinks as Inigo tries out a line. The other girl, the one with the novel and short hair laughs. Pinky says something that sends him blushing beet-red and hurrying back to the table.

Inigo returns, glaring at Gerome while still blushing. “Not one word,” he says, pointing a finger at the tailor.

 

*****

 

That night, Gerome takes Minerva to the forest again. They watch as Inigo moves with the wind once more. His routine has changed drastically. It used to be gentle and simple, flowing with the night breeze. But now, its rough and quick. It’s almost like he’s cursed, in a trance of some sort. Like his mind has left his body and floated up to clouds and Gods above.

Still, Gerome cannot look away.

The rings he’d originally carried with him are gone. Olivia probably asked for them back or he lost them. Hopefully the prior, his mother had told him how many times she’d repaired that garment; hammering out the dents of the rings, sewing the torn silk, replacing the expensive sheer material after wear and tear.

A new verse comes to his song. “ _I will wait forever more, until you are here with me. Right here, by the river hidden in the trees; my love is true and pure, chance it; you may see._ ” He sings. It’s sadder than the other verses, more solemn.

He finishes earlier than usual that night. As he does his stretches, he picks another piece of scorpion grass. He goes to tuck it behind his ear, the blue and purple complimenting his snowy hair. He steps into the river to wash his feet as he always does. Splashing gently, he hums to himself before abruptly stopping. His violet gaze narrows on the trees where Gerome is hidden. The tailor suddenly feels like a pegasus in the scope of an archer. He holds his breath before mounting Minerva, something he hasn’t done since in months. “ _To the sky_ ,” he hisses to the wyvern. Within a moment, her great wings spread and flap, parting the leaves of the trees.

If Inigo hadn’t seen them before, then he definitely saw them now. 

  
  
*****

 

When he returns home, shaken by riding Minerva without a saddle or reins, he finds a piece of scorpion grass on the door of her stable. He stares at it for a moment before Minerva sniffs it, recognizing Inigo’s scent and growing eager.

Gerome frowns, picking up the plant and tucking it behind his ear in the same fashion that Inigo does. He puts Minerva into her paddock, wishing her a night of well rest before trudging into the house and falling into his own bed.

He dreams of Inigo, standing in the grove of trees in broad daylight. The scorpion grass at his feet, the pines towering over head, the creek running from him. It’s his stage. He moves with the wind, almost like an ethereal creature, dancing for their goddess.

He wears white pants that catch the breeze. Underneath is a set of purple leggings, hiding his once-ivory skin, but now freckled with the sun’s kiss. In his snow hair is endless flower petals. He wears a vest and sports his mother’s dancing rings. Instead of being bound together by a few yards of sheer material, they are separate. There’s a short banner of purple fabric with a design on it. The rings slide down his wrists as he turns to Gerome.

His violet eyes are bright and searing. He steps closer to Gerome, and soon, their bodies meet. Oh Gods, he’s right _against_ him... His scent is intoxicating, burning the nose. It’s something sickly sweet. Slowly, Inigo looks up to him.

“Gerome,” he says lowly. His voice is different from anything he’s ever heard. “Why did you watch me rehearse?”

He can’t say anything. His eyes wide as Inigo frowns. “I need to practice alone. I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

“ _For me?_ ” Gerome asks, incredulously.

Slowly, Inigo’s grip on him grows tighter, more constrictive. His eyes warp and fall blank. “Now my performance will be spoiled... because of you.”

He tries to pull away but Inigo’s grip on him is too tight. It draws blood from his arms, ripping his clothing. “Stop it, _stop it!_ ” He yells at the dancer.

“My career is destroyed because of you... and now, I’ll ruin you.” Inigo says.

Suddenly, the skies grow dark. A wash of wings and loud squawking fills the air as Gerome rips himself from Inigo. He watches as the dancer draws a dark magic tome, preparing incantations.

His happy, smiling face is done. The scorpion grass in his hair wilts and falls onto the forest floor. His voice, much more hallow and thin, rings out on the suddenly stifling air. The wings of birds hide the moonlight and sky. All he can see is black and the glowing purple of Inigo’s eyes. “Forgive me!” Gerome yells. “Forgive me Inigo!”

But Inigo doesn’t listen. His incantations grow louder, challenging the squawks and caws of what he believes are crows. “... _Coming forth from the sludge of hell, I summon thee, thou who art grotesque. Melt them, my puppets. Mire!_ ”

He watches as blackened spirits draw from the ground. Black, tar-like substance that smells awful and falls in wax-like clumps. How could the earth, such a holy, gentle thing... No, how could _Naga_ , the patron saint of humanity, create such a sight?

The tome glows, illuminating Inigo’s face, and slowly, he sees his arm raise. The ring slides down his arm as he points at Gerome. His heart thuds in his chest, panic absorbing his being as scrambles to run from Inigo, from his decaying-forest stage. The forest is suddenly silent: his footsteps, heart beat, the creatures born from black magic.

Inigo’s gold cuff meets the ring with a gentle _clink!_ The forest comes alive and just as suddenly stops. It’s at that moment Gerome wakes up, entangled in sweat-soaked sheets. He sits up, clutches himself and checks for any scratches. There’s nothing, thankfully. Still, the dream felt so real, so alive. It was terrifying.

He lies back in bed and pulls the hot sheets over himself, shutting his eyes. _I need to apologize._ He thinks to himself.

 

*****

 

Inigo takes him out for tea again. It’s awkward, but after fleeing the creek, it’s the least he can do.

He doesn’t apologize, not immediately. He doesn’t want Inigo to have this over his head longer than he has to.

So he doesn’t. He doesn’t even broach the subject, and Inigo says nothing about it. They converse about silly minor things, just like mothers would. The weather, how quickly the outfitting had gone by, the progress on the costume, Olivia and Inigo’s travels from Ferox.

Steaming tea is poured from the pot into cups. They share a pot this time. Inigo insists, making Gerome a little uneasy. He hands the cup and saucer to the tailor and smiles before dumping the same sickening amount of sugar in his cup.

“So, the costume is coming along well?” Inigo asks.

“It’s looking fine.” Gerome says, quietly sipping his tea.

“Excellent. Mother received a letter the other day from the Khan himself.”

Gerome looks up as Inigo smirks. The dancer has his interest and the look in his eyes says he’s pleased about it. “Really?” Gerome asks.

“Yes. It said he hasn’t been as excited since Mother’s show at the performing arts festival.” He says. His violet gaze falls on Gerome, softening in a sneaky way. Gerome knows what’s going to come next and he frowns. “I have a proposition.”

“And that is?”

“I’m not sure if Cherche ever showed you it but,” Inigo starts, sipping his tea. “she designed a fabulous costume for Mother’s final recital before leaving to raise me.”

“I know of it.” He remembers the dreamy look that came over his mother’s face as she spoke of the costume. She still had the preliminary sketches of the outfit, the shoes, the accessories, everything. It was her pride and joy, something that had taken ages to carefully design and curate.

Inigo puts on his gentlest smile. “I want something like your mother made for my mother.” He says. “To pay homage to her.”

Gerome frowns. “The designs have already been drawn up and we’ve begun cutting the fabric.” He says. “It’s too late—“

“ _Please_ ,” Inigo begs. He briefly touches Gerome’s hands. The tailor flushes and pulls away. The dancer clears his throat as he sits up. “It would mean the world to me if you could do it.”

Gerome sits back. He takes the cup in his hand, taking a long sip before frowning. He had spent many a night watching Inigo dance without permission. He hadn’t said a thing at all that day, not even after he’d taken off in a huff on one of the few domesticated wyverns in the area. Guilt washes over Gerome as he sighs. “I’ll... look into it,” he says.

Inigo’s face lights up. A smile crosses his face, lighting up the shop. He lets out a little laugh and shakes his head. “That’s wonderful! You don’t know how much that means to me...”

“I have a feeling.” Gerome says. He takes another sip of the burning tea before getting up. “Excuse me. I should go draw up designs...”

“Wait,” Inigo says, setting his hand over Gerome’s once again. He gives him a smile. “Finish your cup. I’ll come back with you.”

Gerome takes a seat again. For once, the two converse normally. They talk of colours and fabrics and designs. Inigo wants purple and white to be incorporated into the outfit, as well as an old gold belt from one of his mother’s old costumes.

They finish their tea quickly and walk back to the shop. Inigo sits on the floor as Gerome sits at a desk, a large pad of paper spread before him. Charcoal moves across the paper rapidly, his fingers stained with grey. He set up Olivia’s old costume on a mannequin in the corner. She had sent it back after her final performance.

Inigo boils more water for as Gerome continues designing. He stares at the page as he slowly recognizes the puffy sheer pants and solid coloured leggings from his dream the night prior. His hand stops against the page.

“I like it,” Inigo says. The tailor jumps as he comes to his side, peeking over his shoulder. “Sorry.”

Gerome stays quiet for a moment before clearing his throat. He lamely hits the paper with the back of his hand. “You like it?”

Inigo nods. “I do.” He says softly. His violet gaze turns to the mannequin. “It’s a lot like hers, but... it’s different.”

“I could make a few adjustments, here and here.” Gerome suggests, his finger hovering over the top and vest.

Inigo nods. “I want her rings too. But not with the loop of fabric binding them together. It would ruin the routine.” He says.

“I can make something work.”

 

*****

 

The days pass and Gerome and Inigo work night and day at the costume. Neither of their mothers know of the change: Cherche would be hurt and Olivia would drop dead of embarrassment.

Besides, surprises are always more interesting.

Night begins to fall and Inigo finally dons the costume. It’s incomplete but it looks quite good. He wears a purple crop top, exposing his midriff and the gold belt that Gerome polished for hours. He’d fallen asleep one night with the rag in his hand.

The leggings he wears match the colour of his top and large, sheer puffed pants cover them. Pins cinch the fabric to a cowl at his ankles as Gerome works away. The dancer can only stare at his reflection in awe.

“It’s still a work in process,” Gerome says repeatedly. “I want to get gold bracelets or something to hold the cuffs of the pants in place.”

“That’d look nice... Really nice.” He says.

There’s a ghost of a smile on Inigo’s face as he spreads his arms. Incomplete arm garments, running from his wrists to his biceps, spread behind him. “Your mother’s costume had a full cape.” Gerome says quietly. “You said it wouldn’t work with your routine so I trimmed them back.”

He produces two locks of purple sheer fabric, cinching them to the back of Inigo’s upper arms. “I can change out the fabric if you don’t like it.”

Inigo shakes his head. “It’s perfect. Really.” He says. He gives a smile to the mirror, reflecting back to Gerome. “Thank you,”

Gerome stays silent as he continues to prim and prep the dancer’s outfit. He carefully places pins. The backroom is silent for a moment. It’s hot, summer now in full swing. The tailor pushes his sleeves up slightly before turning his attention back to the troublesome cuffs. The back door is left right open and a humid breeze wafts in.

“Gerome,” Inigo says quietly.

“Yes?”

Inigo is quiet for a moment. Slowly, he rests his hand on Gerome’s shoulder, the tailor looking up. “Did you... happen to catch me rehearsing my steps?”

He looks back to his work. His hands are frozen, just barely grazing Inigo’s skin. “I could’ve sworn I saw y—“ He stops himself. “Minerva. I thought I saw Minerva flying the other night.”

“She did get out.” He lies.

“Oh.” Inigo’s voice is somewhat upset. “Well, at least she came home safe.”

“But she does have a... thing, for dancers.” Gerome says quickly. “Apparently she loved to watch Olivia dance back in the day.”

Quietly, Inigo adds, “Well, I’ll have to dance for her then.” There is another silence between the two as Gerome finishes cinching the hems and Inigo changes back into his clothes.

The tailor stands in the doorway, looking out into the night. The air is heavy and thick. Whatever breeze that is on the air is stifling and warm.

“I know you were there.”

Gerome turns around. Inigo stands, holding the dancer’s ring that was his mothers. He stares at it. “I knew it for a while.”

He stays silent.

“I could’ve found another grove to dance in, but I suppose... I suppose I liked your audience. You were silent, still like a statue.” Inigo says. His violet gaze peels from the ring to Gerome. It sears him and the tailor tears his eyes from his. “It was nice.”

“I thought you would have been angry. Or upset.” He says at last.

“No.” Inigo shakes his head. “I couldn’t be. You’re the one making this,” He says, stepping closer to Gerome. He holds up the dancer’s ring. His voice grows a little softer, gentler. “Apparently, our mothers used to make the costumes together. Like we’re doing.”

Gerome says quiet again. The dancer holds his gaze firmly before touching Gerome’s hand. “My mother would offer dances and songs while yours worked.”

“I know.”

“Perhaps, if you wanted...” Inigo says. His eyes are filled with hope and worry. “I could show you my routine. You wouldn’t have to hide behind a tree. Unless you wanted to.”

Gerome finds himself chuckling. He stops himself a second later, but Inigo has already heard and has the brightest smile on his face. The tailor nods, clearing his throat. “I’d like to see it.” He says.

The two lock up the shop. Inigo takes the dancer’s ring and they go out to the creek. He walks ahead, the fabric fluttering behind him, brushing his hips as he treads. His footsteps are silent against the grass whereas Gerome’s crunch under his boots. _Probably the way he’s balanced or his stance,_ he thinks as they pass into the grove of pines.

It’s still bloody hot but Gerome can only focus on Inigo and the mismatched parts of the costume he’s wearing: the rings, the arm garments which no long have the strip of fabric pinned to it, his suede slippers. They reach the grove and Gerome instinctively stays in the shade of the trees. Inigo gives him a look, holding his hand out to him. The tailor slips from the darkness, standing in the moonlight with Inigo.

Slowly, he begins to sing as his feet tap against the forest floor. He’s barefoot, as usual, with the slippers tucked beside a tree.

In the moonlight, in those colours, Inigo looks more mesmerizing than ever. A smile spreads on his face as his eyes shut and he quickly raises his arms overhead. The rings clink together and catch the light, glinting brightly.

He crouches, foot comes out and does a half circle in the dirt, kicking up dust as he stands to his full height. His arm extends out to the tailor, the ring sliding down his skin, stopping at his wrist.

All it takes is a glance, nothing more than a moment’s look for Gerome to fall under Inigo’s spell. He’s graceful with movements, and although his song is ambiguous to it’s audience, the tailor is certain Inigo’s speaking solely to him.

Perhaps he and Inigo were mistaken. Maybe they were both more alike to their mothers than they thought... Gerome, a master of the needle and thread, and Inigo, an expert of dance and charm. Just like the ladies who carried them, raised them, embraced their talents.

Except... Gerome is certain the blush on Inigo’s cheeks is not from embarrassment. He feels his own face heat, cheeks, neck and ears growing red as Inigo treads closer to him. The way he bites his lip, how the look in his eyes seem to consume him whole.

The moon is hidden by a cloud, casting out the bright light and suddenly, he feels a weight against his chest. His mind screams at him to let go, to push away and run, like an animal. Instead he finds himself pressed against a tree.

There’s a momentary brush against his lips, something soft. A scent, strong and floral, stings his nose. Gently, there’s another brush, this time a little rougher. In the heat of the moment, he kisses back. There’s a short moan in the air and a hand comes up to brush through his pink hair, nails grazing his scalp and the top of his neck. Fingers entangle in his shawl and between his own hands and his back hits the tree again, this time harder. Time is suspended, as if they are stuck in a painting. Another moan, another kiss, another, another, another, another...

Until Gerome opens his eyes. Inigo is the one pressing him against the tree, embracing him so, _kissing_ him.

Just as quickly as it began, it ends, withering and dying like the scorpion grass just picked. His breath hitches in his throat as he pulls himself from the dancer’s spell-like grasp. By force, he breaks Inigo’s hex, pushing the dancer from him. Inigo falls back against the forest floor, terror striking his eyes. The tailor shawl flutters in the breeze before hitting the ground. He sits up, holding Gerome’s gaze for a split second.

He looks terrified and struck, like a small animal in the jaws of a predator. He swallows, slowly getting to his feet. Gerome holds out his hand, shocked by how quickly things have frozen and grown cold. Even in the stifling humidity, there’s a chill in the air. “Gerome, I—“

“ _Don’t_.” Gerome says quickly. He avoids Inigo’s searing violet gaze. “Just, don’t.”

Inigo stops. His hands still against the forest floor, the rings and shawl sullied by dirt and dust. It’s too much. _Everything is too much._ Gerome thinks as he grabs the shawl and begins to back away. He hits the tree once more before quickly turning on his heel and running for home.

 

*****

 

It’s obvious it was not to happen. Plain and clear as day. The kiss, that is. Or, kisses, it was more than one.

Gods, now he’s keeping count of how many times they’d kissed. What next? How many days it’s been since he saw him or worked on his costume?

If he was, it’d be day three.

Gerome traces the steps over in his mind as he works away at a dress sent in for patch work by a lovestruck girl. The same pink-haired one Inigo had hit on from the tea shop. She’d blushed and winked at him when he asked for her name. She’d probably be annoyed if she knew that he forgot it. He moves slow now. If the garment had‘ve shown up days before, he would’ve hastily stitched it. But now, Gerome takes his time, the moments of that night playing over and over painfully. His violet eyes in the moonlight, scared and wide as he pushed Inigo down away from him.

He still can’t believe it was his hands that used force against a famous dancer.

Had he hurt him? Made him cry? Did he leave bruises for Olivia to see and demand what happened?

The door chimes open and he’s all too quick to get up and answer. His mother briefly looks up from her stitching, brow furrowed. He’s usually slower, more slothful. Surely she’s concerned now.

“I’ve got it,” he says. She nods, still not quite sold. She returns to her stitching as he goes to the front.

“Hey Gerbear!” Morgan cheerily greets. She hangs over the counter again and smiles, patting her little palms against the wood.

“I thought your dress was sent.” He says.

“Yeah, but I missed you!” She chimes.

Gerome lets out a sigh as Morgan tugs his sleeve. “Come on!” She says.

“What? Where?”

“Let’s go for tea or something.” She says. “All I’ve done for the past few days is strategy and I want to hang out with you!”

The tailor holds her hazel gaze for a moment before nodding. “Fine.” He says. It’s better than sitting alone, trying not to not think about Inigo and their kiss.

“Whoa, really? I thought you would’ve been all ‘ _No Morgan, I have a costume to prepare for a stupid prick,_ ’ like you’ve been saying for the last few weeks.” She looks genuinely surprised.

“I’m still working on it. I just need to get out.” He says quietly, knowing his mother has the hearing of a hawk.

“Okay, if you’re sure.” She says, her voice growing chipper again. “There’s this new tea place I wanna try...”

She babbles on for a while before they come up to the tea shop and place their orders. The tactician stops halfway through, staring him down. “Okay, tell me what’s wrong.” “There’s nothing wrong.”

“You haven’t called me an idiot or said I’m stupid once! There has to be something the matter.”

“I’m just tired.”

“If you were tired you would’ve ordered an earl grey with me. You’re drinking chai.” She says, crossing her arms. “Look, it won’t leave this table.”

He keeps his gaze to the pot for a moment. Morgan grasps his free hand. “Tactician’s honour.”

Lowly, he says: “Didn’t realize you had honour, let alone a brain.”

She smiles and sits up. Determination and focus fills her eyes. “What happened? And was it with that dancer?” She asks. Gerome flushes quickly as Morgan smirks. “I _knew_ it!”

“Sh-Shut up!” He barks as the tactician shakes her head.

“I’m not judging, promise!” She says. “I’m just surprised that something happened in such a short amount of time. You’re usually much tougher to crack.”

Gerome stays silent, reminded of his mother’s warning to not reveal Inigo’s parents. She sits forwards. “His mother is a dancer too, right? Wouldn’t happen to be Olivia?”

“How did you know?”

“Eh, educated guess.” She says, taking a sip of her tea. She dumps a lot of milk into her cup and slurps it back. Not a graceful or poised bone in her body. “Did you know my Dad had a thing for her for a while?”

“I... Didn’t.”

“He apparently _really_ liked her but something happened a few years after the war. The first one, not the Valmese conquest-bullshit.” She says. Her tone is serious. “I heard she married a Plegian dark mage and a lot of people were shocked. My Dad wasn’t too happy when he found out.”

“But they weren’t dating then were they?”

“No, never got to. Dad was a complete loser with the ladies and Olivia was scared of her own shadow! They were just close friends. She wanted to build a theatre and he helped plan the structure and such. Had a huge crush on her. Think Minerva-sized, dude... I wouldn’t be surprised if he still does.”

“My Mother didn’t want me to tell you about Inigo, or her for that matter.” He says.

“Too late. I already figured it out.” She smiles. “And don’t worry, I never saw Inigo or Olivia in Rosanne. Dad and Mom are happily married and I want it to stay that way.”

Morgan sits up. “So, what happened between you and the dancing prick Inigo? ...that _is_ his name, right?” She asks. He nods. “Weird name.” She murmurs.

Suddenly, it all comes out. About their tea outings, the redesigns to match Olivia’s old costume, the dances by the creek. Their kiss in the moonlight is when Morgan’s eyes widen.

“Wow. I didn’t see that coming.” She says. “I thought you clocked him out or something.”

Gerome rubs his face, shaking his head. “I wish I had‘ve. It would’ve been easier.”

“Yeah that blows.”

“I also... pushed him away when I realized what we were doing.”

Morgan stops slurping her tea. “Naga’s nards, you are a _disaster_ , Gerome.”

He stays silent as Morgan frowns. He realizes then that it’s the first time he’s seen her with such seriousness. He had thought she would’ve made jokes and poked fun at his mistake. But instead, she only listens, allowing him to pour his heart out like tea from the pot.

“So,” she says, setting her cup down. Both pots are drained from tea and the waitress eyes them, waiting to be called over for the bill. “do you have a crush on him or something?”

“I don’t know.” Gerome breathes.

“That’s okay. Not knowing is fine.” Her tone is softer. She waves over the waitress to take the pots. She clears the table away and tells Morgan the bill, to which the tactician opens her coin purse and hands her a few coppers.

She’s getting to her feet when he says, “He hasn’t come around the shop since.” He says.

“He’s probably scared. Like you.” Morgan says. “You _are_ scared, right?”

“I don’t know.” He says. Morgan pats his shoulder.

“Poor baby,” she says. The kind, gentle listener is gone. She’s reverted back to the annoying bookworm as before.

The two walk back towards the shop. They say farewell and Morgan catches his sleeve as he turns away. “What?”

“It’s okay to be scared and unsure.” She says. “This will all work out. Just try not to stress.”

“Famous last words.”

The door to the shop opens and his mother sticks her head out. “Gerome, honey.” She coaxes. “I was wondering where you were. Oh hello milady.”

Morgan smiles and waves before smacking Gerome’s back and calling farewell to the two. When he turns to face his mother, her face is serious and stern.

“She doesn’t know—“

“No.” He lies, walking past the seamstress.

“Good.” She says. “We got away unscathed.”

“What do you mean?” Gerome asks, turning to face her.

“Olivia and Inigo went back to Regna Ferox.” She says. The words hit him like bricks. The dancers, gone. Perhaps Inigo told his mother of what happened and they left, as if to rip away the bandage.

He’s quiet for a moment. “I thought you’d be happy.” His mother says, tsking. “You seemed to be short around him.”

“When’d they leave?” He asks. His mother turns to walk through the shop, treading into the backroom. Neither Olivia or Cherche knew about the second costume Gerome was designing. _The costume_. He thinks as he looks to his mother. “Just after you went to tea. Their ship was coming early and they wanted to make it back with enough time for Inigo to rehearse for a few days.”

“I see.” He says.

“Gerome,” His mother’s voice is sweet and quiet for a moment. “Are you all right?”

He nods. “I had too much tea.” He says quickly. “I’m quite tired. I’m going home.”

“Okay.” His mother says, not believing him. He doesn’t care. The only things on his mind are the costume and Inigo leaving before he could get it. “Take care,”

He doesn’t say a word, quickly leaving the shop.

Why would Inigo leave so suddenly? Weren’t they staying until the end of the week and then returning the night before the performance for the Khan? It was still early on in the week.

 _It’s because of me. I pushed him away when he kissed me and..._ His thoughts trail off as he pushes through the village square. He arrives home, ignoring Minerva who lazes in the sun. He hurries upstairs to his room, throwing open the closet door. The costume is still there, untouched from the night Gerome brought it home.

“He left without it.” Gerome says aloud.

All this time, all this effort, and he left the fucking costume behind.

The tailor frowns, staring at the half-complete costume. He reaches to it, touching the soft fabric. He is taken back to when Inigo wore it. When he smiled brighter than the sun. How surprised he looked when he spread his arms out and saw the sheer fabric trail behind him.

Slowly, he removes the costume from the wire mannequin. The pins stuck in specific, precise places for stitching. The pant legs that need hemming and cinching. He takes his personal sewing kit and begins to work on it, not knowing why.

He stays up all night, brewing cups of tea to keep him awake. His focus is solely on the costume. And before he realizes it, it is dawn and the costume is finished. For what reason he finished it, Gerome does not know. And yet, he’s still surprised when he looks at it on the mannequin.

It’s perfect. Gorgeous. Except, it’s missing one thing... Well, technically two. Inigo for one, and the dancer’s rings for the second.

 _It’s too beautiful to sit here and collect dust._ He thinks to himself. In the passed night, he found himself hating Inigo for leaving without the costume. If he hadn’t have asked for it in the first place, he wouldn’t have cared... Because Gerome wouldn’t have found feelings for him.

And part of him is glad he commissioned the costume.

 

*****

 

 _I hate that I miss his face._ Inigo thinks as he raises his hands over his head. It’s been days since they returned to Ferox. Since he arrived, he’s holed himself up in his family’s small dance studio. He practices and practices but the moves don’t feel right as of late.

And he knows why. It’s not because he’s not dancing in the moonlight by the creek. It’s not because he’s without props—he still has the incomplete dancer’s rings.

It’s because Gerome is not with him.

He had known the tailor was watching him all along. He didn’t know that his and Cherche’s home backed onto the woods. He had no idea that he walked his wyvern out there every night. Inigo could have cursed him out. He could have ran when they stopped. He could’ve left. But he didn’t. Because he wanted Gerome to see his dance, to see him perform in the moonlight. For what reason, Inigo wasn’t sure.

Yet, he was sure that it was a mistake. To kiss him at least. That was for certain a mistake.

But he was still surprised when he kissed him back. When he let him press him against that tree and touch his hair—which for the record, was softer than silk. And even more surprised when he pushed him onto the forest floor. He still has a bruise from it. Thankfully makeup could hide it.

They are only hours away from the performance for Khan Basilio. His mother runs around like a headless griffon. Nerves attack him, eating away at the courage and bravado that used to be in his movements, his dance.

Now his posture is weak, his steps unsure and heavy. He moves as if weighed down by thousands of bricks. His twirls are slower and he stumbles more oft than naught.

He counts away the seconds, minutes, hours, until he’s to don the costume and stand in front of thousands of people and perform. He’s to be like his mother; demure, beautiful and reinvigorating. That’s the purpose of his performance, yet he cannot think of dancing at the moment. He can’t think of anything except the fleeting moments before he’s to stand on stage and fail.

He slips out, avoiding his mother and father who hurriedly review music and outfits for that night. He hurries to his room where his costume awaits. It’s laid over top his bed.

It’s the one Cherche created. It’s less flashy, more subtle. The neck is in a cowl fashion, which exposes much of his chest. Instead of dancer’s rings there’s an ornate fan, resembling his mother’s. But looking at this outfit, all he can think of is the costume he left behind in Rosanne.

 _Gerome probably hates me_. He thinks. _If not for forcing myself upon him, but for leaving that costume behind. He spent so much time on it._

He recalls the nights they’d sat together, hidden in the backroom after their mothers had both gone to sleep. The cups of tea they brewed and shared together. _Still, I can’t blame him if he does. I would hate me too._

He finds the dancer’s rings hidden in the bottom of his travelling packs. They’re still dusty and the safety pins keep the fabric attached to the metal. Some of it tore on the way back to Ferox. He stares at the rings, rubbing his thumb over the metal.

Dirt rubs off onto it and he frowns. What an idiot he’d been. He had cracked through Gerome’s tough shell and the second he’d seemed happy to follow him, to indulge him, Inigo ruined it by kissing him.

Inigo drops the ring as a knock at the door scares him. He kicks it under his bed, stashing the other.

“Hey son!” His father greets, a bright smile on his face. “Your mother wants to know if you’ll be ready soon.”

“Yes, Father.” Inigo says, nodding and forcing a smile. “I’ll be ready in a snap.”

“Excellent!” He smiles cheerfully. The door quickly closes and Inigo dives under the bed, grabbing the ring.

He packs and they arrive at the theatre soon. It’s beginning to fill and his mother anxiously waits for the Khan. It’s still light out and his performance is set for dusk.

The dancer frowns as she pokes her head out of the room. Inigo’s hair is wet and clumps together. He begins to towel it off before his mother returns and takes over. Her touch is rougher and tense, an obvious sign of her nervousness.

“You’re more worried than me, Mother.” Inigo says as she pulls away the towel. The elder nervously smiles before ruffling his hair again.

“Sorry darling.” She smiles. “It’s just that it’s your first performance for Khan Basilio. I want it to be perfect.”

“I know you do.” He says. He sits up straighter, giving her a smile. “Why don’t you and Father go and take a walk to calm your nerves. I can practice and prepare while you relax.”

“I shouldn’t be relaxing on your big day.” His mother says, frowning. “And I know a fake smile when I see one.”

Inigo’s grin fades. “You know all my tricks.” He murmurs. “If I didn’t know them, who would?” She smiles.

She helps dry his hair until it falls flat against his head. There’s primping galore: makeup to accent and compliment his fine face, fragrance (gardenia, of course) to allure the front-stage guests, and fuddling with shape wear.

He asks his mother to leave so he can practice before getting into the costume. While she thinks its to avoid getting it sweaty, it’s actually to stay out of it as long as possible. The idea of not wearing the costume Gerome prepared feels... guilty? Wrong? He did ask for him to go behind his mother’s back to prepare it for him.

Either way, his mother leaves, leaving Inigo to practice. He goes through the moves, slowly and meticulously, making sure each action is well timed to the music he hums. For a few moments, his mind drifts back to the forest, when he danced for Gerome. Their bodies so close, heat radiating from his person as the moon is obscured and they embrace so tenderly until—

A knock at the door takes him from his thoughts. He stops mid twirl, looking from the mirror where he performs to the door. It’s too early to be stage crew telling him to go on. Besides, his mother would’ve made a reappearance before to hold him and wish him luck.

He stashes the dancer’s rings before opening the door. He pulls it open, only to be greeted by a large bunch of scorpion grass. There’s thousands of tiny little blue, purple and pink flowers and verdant grass just inches from his face. A package, delicately wrapped, is thrust into his hands a moment later.

“Hey, you’re Inigo, right?!” A girl chimes. She doesn’t look like an usher or apart of the stage crew. She has short black hair and a doll face. She wears an ornate purple dress with a large gold belt. A pretty shawl is over her arms. “A friend wanted me to give you this.”

Inigo takes the flowers, petals falling at his feet. He rests it over the package. “D-Did they leave a name?” He asks. “Say, aren’t you that girl from the seamstress’ shop?”

“No,” she says, obviously lying. She throws him a smirk before running away.

The dancer stares back into the flowers. _The same flowers that grew around the little creek in Rosanne_. He thinks. He looks at the package, wrapped in brown packing paper. There’s a pink bow bound around the outside. No tag.

He turns back into dressing room and sets the flowers down. There’s bouquets of other ones: roses, tulips, snapdragons. A florist would have a field day with all the beautiful plants, yet the scorpion grass is the prettiest to him. He looks at it sadly, resting it on the vanity and sitting on the little stool. He takes the package in his lap, unravelling the bow. He rips away the packing paper, tears coming to his eyes. “Gods damn it,” he whispers, hiding a sob.

It’s the costume, the one Gerome made. However, instead of it being held together with pins and needles, it’s fully sewn. The leggings, the crop top, the vest and pants. A new pair of slippers are even coated with a bit of glitter that catches the light when Inigo examines it. The arm garments are complete with gold cuffs at each end and small gold medallions down the biceps. It’s more beautiful than Inigo dreamed. Wrapped around the slippers is a note. ‘ _Break a leg.’_ is written in tiny, perfect cursive.

 

*****

 

“Did he get the package?” Gerome asks as Morgan walks back to the lobby. For once, she doesn’t look like a nationless waif, thanks to the dress she’s wearing. It’s the one her parents commissioned for her formal debut. However, like she, it’s debuting early than expected.

“Yeah and he was super confused.” She says, thudding down in an ornate loveseat. “I still think you should’ve given it to him yourself,”

“I can’t. He probably hates me.”

“He looks pretty sad, I mean, aside from the confusion.” Morgan says, looking to him. “You should probably go see him.”

“I’m not going to see him.” Gerome says firmly. A host passes by with a platter of mead, ale and wine and Morgan steps on her tippy-toes to get a glass.

She goes to take a sip, eyeing Gerome up. “Jeez, usually you’d be yelling at me for just looking at the booze.” She says. “You _really_ need to make up with your boyfriend and get back to your old naggy self.”

“He is not my boyfriend!” He says forcefully. He takes the ale from her and throws it into a nearby plant, returning the glass to a nearby table.

The tactician nods, clearly unconvinced. “Riiiiight, and I’m not a genius.”

“You aren’t. You’re an ignoramus.”

“Idiocy and ingenius are two sides of the same coin.” Morgan shrugs.

“You couldn’t be more wrong.”

“So why did you come here anyway?” She asks. “Just to sit here and groan and gripe and set fire to your loins?”

“ _Morgan_ ,” he hisses.

“Just speakin’ the truth.” She says, shaking her head. Her ebony locks flick back and forth as the tailor frowns.

“I wanted to see that the costume arrived safely—“

“Just not delivered by yourself.” She fills in. She gets a glare from the tailor. “That mask looks stupid by the way.”

“Shut up.” He says before turning on his heel. He begins down the hallway.

“Where you going?” She calls.

“To Plegia!” He joking calls before frowning. “To make sure he got the costume. You win, you fool.”

Morgan’s face grows bright as she smiles. “Okay lovebird! Be safe, don’t break a leg!”

He throws another glare as she laughs and gives him a big wave goodbye. The tailor passes through the crowded halls of the theatre.

Morgan had been a huge help that evening. When she finally got the story out of Gerome, she made connections with the theatre Inigo was to perform at. Unsurprisingly, it was the same theatre Robin had helped Olivia to plan and plot. She managed to compromise two tickets for them by saying her father was _the_ Robin, sainted grandmaster of Ylisse and architect of the theatre. Her claims apparently had been plenty, the theatre going as far as to send a carriage escort at Port Ferox.

He passes through crowds of partygoers, already drunken and happy. Soirées and parties had never been his favourite setting, too many voices, too many people. He much preferred the solace of an evening in front of fire with a few good friends, perhaps even a wyvern.

He slips past the crowds of attendees and to the back of the theatre. It’s loud and busy, stage crew rushing about to prepare the dancers and singers for the night. He draws his cape around him. On the boat over, he’d stitched himself a finer outfit than his tunic and trousers. He wears pair of black slacks tucked into his finer pair of leather riding boots. A black dress shirt, not cuffed at the elbow as usual but to the wrists is underneath a fine black vest. He wears black gloves and cape attached by a gold clasp. The first two buttons of his shirt had been undone to show a soft grey cravat. A pin in the shape of a dragon’s claw is in the centre. He dons a mask, black as night, to hide his face. The one, single thing that gives him away is his pink hair. He was unwilling to dye it, much to Morgan’s disappointment for “a mega-edge Gerbear” as she said.

He finds the dressing rooms, going through what he’s to say, how to act. Gods, what is he to do? He pushed Inigo away and ran first—

 _I ran first._ He remembers. Not Inigo. Gerome ran first. This was his fault. They kissed, he pushed him away and then ran. It was him who ran and started all this.

 

*****

 

When he sees Inigo nervously chattering in his seat, his father tells him to come for a walk around the stage.

“It’s always helped your Mother.” He says.

The dancer keeps his gaze to the floor like a child. All he can do is nod.

Gingerly, the dark mage takes his hand, looping it around his arm. They walk slowly, steps creeking against the old wood that was once a dream in his mother’s mind.

His father’s hands are cold against his palms. He’s sweating bullets, not only for the performance, but also for the costume that he unwrapped barely ten minutes ago. He stashed it when his parents came knocking. It still seems scandalous, to go behind Cherche’s back and... and... and rip off her design. That’s what it is after all, a rip off of his mother’s and Cherche’s work.

“Who sent you the weeds?” His father asks with a smile. Inigo’s head snaps up.

“W-Weeds?” He asks.

“Yeah, the forget-me-nots.” He says. “They’re weeds.”

“I thought they were scorpion grass.”

His father shrugs. “That’s what the Valmese call them, I guess to scare kids outta bringing them home.” he says. “But in Ylisse and Ferox they’re called forget-me-nots.”

Inigo feels his cheeks flush as he looks to the ground. “I asked because Cherche would send the same weeds to Olivia.”

His eyes flicker to his father, whom pats his hand. “She must’ve sent some to you too. Or maybe it was that son of hers.”

Inigo turns beet-red. “F-Father! No!” He exclaims. “We hate each other!”

“That’s what they always say before they fall head over heels.” He says with a smile.

They look at the hectic backstage, looking on as a singer carries out a tune. It’s somewhat of an operatic song. Inigo squints and recognizes the same girl from before, the one who he swore was the Chon’sin princess Morgan. She’s either half asleep or entering the fourth realm of boredom as the singer continues on about a longing love.

The seat beside her is empty and she’s thrown her shawl into it as if to hold the spot. Gerome. He thinks, his gaze widening.

“You look like you wanna go back to your dressing room,” his father says in a singsong voice.

“Yes, I do.” Inigo says before glancing to his father. The mage simply smiles and obliges.

 

*****

 

Sewing wasn’t the only thing nimble fingers were useful for. Sometimes they were useful for lock-picking.

Gerome had quietly busted the door open and stood in the dressing room. He could see the costume, haphazardly hidden and still in the brown package paper. The note however, is tucked beside the mirror. Gerome can’t help but feel the corners of his lips turn up at it.

The bouquet of scorpion grass is tucked into a vase. They look out of place in a room of finer flowers.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a glint of gold. He turns to a satchel, filled with Inigo’s day clothes. Stepping closer, he recognizes it as the incomplete dancers rings. They’re still secured by pins and there’s tears in the fabric. The tailor frowns and reaches into the bag, pulling them out.

He sits down on the stool and takes out a small sewing kit, thankful that he remembered it in the last seconds as he practically ran away from home. His mother had mounted Minerva and flew around the square of Rosanne as he and Morgan hid in the trees.

He removes his gloves before taking the rings in his hands. He pulls the pins, folding the fabric in half and looping it around the ring. He quickly works away, sewing the strips together. He is lost in his passion, focused solely on the rings.

“I didn’t think you’d ever come to see me.”

He looks up. Inigo closes the door behind him. Before it clicks, Gerome sees a white haired man in fine purple robes. _Surely Inigo’s father._ He thinks, suddenly thinking of painful hexes.

“I wanted to make sure the costume made it to you safely.” He says, keeping his eyes to the rings.

“You finished it.”

“ _Finishing_ it.” Gerome corrects. “The rings are missing and that fan won’t match the outfit.”

Inigo takes a step closer. There’s a silence between the two. He finishes the main work, moving onto the stitch job.

“I want to apologize for leaving so abruptly.”

“I left first.” Gerome says quickly. The dancer’s brow furrows.

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.” He says. “You kissed me and I ran first. I should apologize.”

Inigo says quiet. His violet gaze sears Gerome, who finally meets it. His eyes are glassy, and he looks close to tears. Yet, he looks beautiful. His eyes are accented with black liner and his brows are fuller than before. His lips, turned into a slight frown, are slightly darker than normal. There’s a glint of gold in his left ear; a moon earring hanging in a sky of white hair.

The tailor sets down the first ring. He stands tall before bowing in front of the dancer. In a low voice, just loud enough for Inigo to hear, he says, “Please, forgive me.”

Inigo holds his gaze. Slowly, he walks to Gerome, holding his face in his hands. Violet and hazel meet and hold gazes as Gerome stands a little taller. Inigo breathes out a sigh, resting his head against Gerome’s chest, burying his face in his cravat. The tailor simply holds him for a moment while the dancer breathes in and out, seemingly catching his breath.

Time stands still before Inigo stands up straight. He swipes at his eyes momentarily before Gerome clears his throat. The dancer wordlessly reaches past him to get the costume and disappears behind the room divider to change.

Gerome fervently works at the other dancer’s ring, stitching the strips of fabric together and dusting off the dirt from the metal.

When Inigo emerges, Gerome is awestruck. The costume looks better on him than before. He nervously holds his hands out to Gerome to help him clasp the gold cuffs around his wrists. Inigo glances at himself in the mirror, a smile crosses his lips as he spreads his arms, seeing the strips of fabric emerge. He does a twirl and lets out a small, short laugh. It’s enough to get Gerome smiling.

He looks to the tailor, the smile fading as he nods. “Thank you.” He says. “It looks even more wonderful than I imagined.”

“My pleasure.” He says. “It was made for only you.”

There’s a knock at the door as Olivia calls in. “There’s five minutes to curtain dear!”

“Coming!” Inigo says, looking at Gerome to hide. He tucks himself behind the divider. Inigo, Olivia and Henry quickly exchange hugs and well wishes before he shoos them away. Gerome reaches into his coat pocket. “There is one more thing.” He says after the door closes.

Inigo’s gaze flickers from his hand to his face. He produces a purple and gold headband, embroidered with glittery thread. He offers it to the dancer. “A finishing touch I made on the way across the sea.”

The dancer looks at it for a moment. He gingerly takes it from Gerome’s hand, turning to the mirror to put it on. He tucks it behind his fringe. It stands out against his white hair, glittering in the light. “It completes it.” He says.

“I thought it would.” Gerome says quietly.

Inigo looks up to catch the tailor staring at him in the mirror’s reflection. After a moment, Gerome turns away. Inigo reaches out to catch his hand. “Where are you going?”

“To my seat.” He says. “You’re close to curtain.”

“I...” He starts. “Could care less about the curtain.”

Gerome turns around, looking at him with wide eyes. The dancer quickly embraces him, kissing him once again. Gerome holds him close for a moment before they both break free.

“I’m sorry,” Inigo immediately says. His breath is hitched, holding his hands out to Gerome. His palms, slick with nervous sweat meet his vest. He leaves a mark, pulling away quickly to cease contact. The tailor keeps his gaze to the ground and the dancer panics. “Please, _please_ don’t run again. I’m sorry, I truly am—“

The tailor interrupts him. “I don’t know where my feelings stand for you other than that you drive me mad.” He says, breathlessly. “I find myself attracted to you, like you have some sort of strange spell on me. It throws my heart into...”

“Into?” Inigo encourages, his eyes hopeful and scared.

“Into turmoil when I’m not with you.” Gerome says quietly. He fights a smile, the corners of his lips curving as he speaks. “And even stranger, I welcome this feeling.”

The dancer blushes, a smile crossing his lips. “I... I welcome it too. Happily.” He says.

“ _Two minutes, Inigo!_ ” A stage hand calls.

The dancer and tailor exchange a glance. Within the blink of an eye they embrace again. Feverish kisses and grasping hands blind them both for a moment. Inigo’s touch is bewitching; hexing him further and further with the graze of his lacquered fingers. The frenzied brush of fingertips and palms against the curve of a jaw, the contour of a cheek, the nape of the neck and the thud of a heartbeat through finely created clothes. The both of them, all they can focus is on each other, their breaths, the exchange of rough and soft kisses... Finally, Inigo pulls away the mask, exposing Gerome’s face. The tailor blushes, attempting to hide his face in his cravat.

“You should play dress up less often, Mr Tailor.” He quickly says. His voice is husky and flirtatious. “You’re much more handsome without that mask on.”

“Shut up.” Gerome playfully says. He slides the dancer’s rings onto his wrists, meeting the cuffs. He helps Inigo with final primps before running out with him to the back of the stage.

The current act, a group of dancers, is finishing their routine. The lights are blinding and music is deafening. How he could do this, Gerome does not know. Inigo does a few final stretches before turning to Gerome.

One final look. One final moment. One final kiss. Gerome takes his hand, leaning down to let his lips brush his fingers. Their gazes lock and Inigo smiles. “Break a leg.” He whispers. Inigo quickly takes his face in his hands, brushing his lips against the tailor’s briefly as the audience erupts in applause. When Gerome opens his eyes, the dancer is gone.

He returns to his seat, clapping loudly as they wait for Inigo to begin his dance. Morgan does a double take as he sits down.

“Your mask is gone.” She says.

“Yes.”

“You look like less of a loser.”

“...Thank you.” She leans closer to him, greeted by the burning scent of gardenia. She recognizes that his cravat is smudged with kohl and there’s water marks on pectorals. A smile spreads across her lips as she sits up. “Didja see Inigo?”

“Yes.”

“Did you make up with him?”

“Yes.” 

“Got a... boyfriend now, Gerbear?”

A smirk plays on Gerome’s lips. “Perhaps,” he says as the theatre darkens. The curtain goes up and the light shines on Inigo, poised to begin. His smile is true, unforced and infectious to his audience. Immediately, they are all under his spell. He poses, reaching up, the rings glinting in the light. His bewitching hand reaches out to him once more and Gerome welcomes his spell and sensations that come with it. The feelings he’d fought for ages... The unmatched feeling of love and the hunger of desire.

Inigo shimmers brightly. The sun, moon and stars pale in comparison to him. He is on another level, far off the realms of the earth, and uses his bewitching grasp to pull Gerome along with him. And even though they are in a Feroxi theatre, Gerome feels as though they’re back in the forest behind his home. He sheathes his sewing needle into the pincushion on his wrist like a sword to it’s scabbard. Slowly, Inigo’s hand outstretches to him and Gerome takes it, their fingers intertwining. He steps into the moonlight, blinded by the brightness of the constellations and the moon that smiles upon the tailor and the dancer. Inigo’s hand touches his cheek gingerly before tracing down his arm and turning his hand over to take his palm. Hand-in-hand once more, the two sway and dance, their feet meeting the endless, tiny petals of scorpion grass underfoot.

As if he is still seated in the shadows with Minerva, stitching his costume carefully. Inigo twirls, his feet kissing his endless audience of scorpion grass. The sewing needle pinched between Gerome’s fingers catching the moonlight that shines upon the dancer and his tailor.


End file.
